Classic Poem

O SWEET , delusive Noon,
Which the morning climbs to find;
O moment sped too soon,
And morning left behind;

While pale gray hours descend
Fast on the farther slope,
Where a darkness marks the end
Of that day's work and hope.

O Noon, if thou couldst stay!
Were there but spell to arrest
Thy magic moment,—to slay
Night on the fair sky's breast,

Or make the morning haste,
Or the chilly evening tarry,
And the liquid light they waste
Give thee, O Noon, to carry!

O cruel, stinted drop,
In sapphire chalice so deep
That if million suns should stop
Its walls their light could keep!

O Love, O Joys above
All words of my telling, stay!
Does your swiftness mean that love
Has day, and noon of day?

This sweetness more, more sweet,
And this brightness growing bright,—
This silent, delicious heat,
This dearer, tenderer light,—

O Love, mean these a noon,
A noon which thou climb'st to find,
That moment over too soon,
With morning left behind?

O Love, we kneel, we pray,
For our sweet Love's precious sake;
Set here the bound of our day;
Grant us this choice we make.

We fear the gray hour's sight,
The moment over too soon;
Spare us the chill of the night;
We will forego our noon!